by Sarah Rayner
“Okay … But, anyway, I promise I won’t ask him to leave Maggie. He’s got a son—I couldn’t do that to him.”
“Couldn’t do it to who? James or his son?”
“His son, Nathan.”
“Now you say so.”
That observation pained her.
“Look,” said Rob, “you know what I think.”
“What?” Chloë supposed he might as well tell her it like it was. This was why she’d called him, after all.
“I think he sounds great, to be honest,” Rob continued, obviously keen to express his take on the matter at last, “absolutely right for you in many, many ways. He’s successful, he’s bright, he’s funny; you like the same kind of things. He says he doesn’t make a habit of affairs, which—if you believe it—means he could be serious. And from what I glimpsed of him from behind my net curtains that time—” Rob had sneaked a look a couple of weeks previously when James had been leaving “—I’ve got to concede he’s pretty damn gorgeous. Infinitely shaggable, I’d say.”
Chloë purred.
“But,” he added, “you silly, silly girl, the man is married!”
“I know,” said Chloë, in a small voice. “I couldn’t seem to stop myself.”
“You’re too much of an adrenaline junkie for your own good,” said Rob. “And if anyone knows, I should. It’s only I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Ouch. That again.
“And from my experience—which admittedly isn’t quite the same—if a man is married, especially if he has a child, the commitment runs much deeper than might seem to be the case.”
“I realize that.”
“Has he ever, for instance, told you he doesn’t love his wife anymore?”
“Um, no, not exactly…”
“Well, then, I’m sorry to say that my guess is he does.”
“Oh.” Chloë hadn’t fully faced this idea. James’s behavior had seemed to suggest otherwise, yet it was true he’d never said he didn’t love Maggie. He might even have said the opposite on that first night in Soho, but Chloë had ignored it.
“Which means one of three things. Either he’s going to string you both along until he sorts his head out—in which case he may finally decide to leave her for you but it could take a long time, trust me. Or he’s going to leave her eventually, but you’ll end up being the relationship that instigates that, not the one he ends up in. Or he’ll stay with her because he loves her and because of Nathan.”
Chloë felt her hopes being swept away by a hurricane. “So what do you suggest I do?”
“Quite frankly, my dear, I think you should go to the conference, glean all you can about magazines, shag him senseless till Saturday, then quit while you’re ahead.”
“You mean finish it? I can’t do that.”
“I know you can’t. If it’s any consolation, I’m not sure I’d be able to either.”
“What then?”
“Prepare to ride it, my girl. Like a wild stallion. See where it takes you. Though you’re gonna have to hold on tight. This is by no means the worst it could get. You’ll know when you’ve had enough, I promise.”
“Okay…” said Chloë, gradually acknowledging this was what she had been unconsciously prepared to do all along.
At that moment there was a soft knock at the door, and James breezed in, looking surprisingly pleased with himself. Chloë pulled herself together and sat up. “Rob,” she said quickly, “got to go.”
“Is he back?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get you a present?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Ask him—I wanna know!”
“Okay.” She put her hand over the receiver and looked up at James. “Did you get me a present?”
“Yes.” James grinned. First he handed her an Astor Wines and Spirits carrier bag. Inside was a bottle of Bollinger champagne. “I had to go to the East Village.”
“Oooh,” she said appreciatively.
Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a tiny, carefully folded packet of paper.
“Oh, my God!” said Chloë. “You didn’t!”
“I did.”
She opened it. From its glistening white color and lumpiness it appeared to be very high quality.
Cocaine.
* * *
Chloë was a hedonist, but nonetheless she and James decided to hold off on doing a line until after dinner—the coke would curb their appetites, and they didn’t want to miss the chance to try another New York eatery. James said he’d spotted an interesting place on First Avenue when he’d been in the East Village. “Looked like we could eat upstairs, then dance downstairs later,” he said, and Chloë agreed it sounded fun.
The moment they’d finished their main course, she wrinkled her nose excitedly. “Go on, give it to me, then.”
Quickly he handed her the packet under the table. Holding it tightly lest anyone see, she got up and made her way to the restroom. She had to wait for two women to go before her (they went in together—a giveaway they were doing drugs) before a cubicle was free. Inside, she double-checked the door was locked properly and opened the wrapper. The coke would need chopping first, but she’d done this before—not often, yet enough to know what she was doing. She took out a credit card, thinking how decadent this all was, shook some of the powder onto the top of the toilet cistern, and broke up the lumps. Then she racked out a line—long, thin, elegant, the promise of pleasure to come. She rolled up a twenty-dollar bill (dollars, how wild!) and sniffed half up one nostril, half up the other, flushing the lavatory simultaneously so no one would hear.
Ooh, yum. She could taste it as she swallowed. She licked her index finger and picked up the remainder from the cistern to rub on her teeth, vaguely conscious of the lack of hygiene. No point worrying about that, she decided, soon I’m going to be high on Class As. What are a few germs in comparison?
Back at the table, she handed the packet to James, who left to follow suit.
While he was gone, she appraised the other diners. An offbeat, creative-looking ensemble, were they writers or poets, musicians or painters, she wondered. Presently—whoa! There was a delectable whoosh as the chemical hit her brain. She had the same feeling she’d experienced at the top of the Empire State—an exhilarating combination of powerlessness and omnipotence. It was as if because she was just one small person on a very huge planet she could do anything, behave however the hell she liked.
When James got back, he sat down, looked across at her, and asked, “Don’t you sometimes feel that what counts is the good time, the experience, the sensation?”
“Yup, I do.”
“You make me feel like that a lot.” He grinned.
“It’s mutual.” She grinned back.
“It’s kind of dangerous…”
“That too,” she nodded, “but so irresistible.”
“Totally.” He laughed, wickedly. “We’re probably very bad for each other.”
“Without doubt.” The coke gave her the guts to be more provocative. “Do you think I’m worse for you than Maggie?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“For sure. She’d never do anything like this. She doesn’t even know I still do.”
“Do you? How often?”
“Oh, I’ve only done it a few times since we’ve been married. But I did it at that conference I told you about.”
“The one where you met the Spanish girl?”
“Yes. And at a couple of parties we’ve been at. Actually,” he paused, “I shared a packet with Jean once.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did, one New Year. It was a little treat I got for us both. Not that you’d know with Jean—she’s so hyper she hardly needs it, but she likes it very occasionally.”
“I’m surprised.” Perhaps there was more to Jean than Chloë realized. And perhaps, given Jean was Maggie’s best friend, there was more to Maggie too. “So how come Maggie’s not into it?”
“
Oh, I don’t know, it’s not really her scene. She’s quite clean-living, really. Likes to look after herself. She eats well, exercises a lot. I guess…” He paused, searching for the right words. “… she likes to be in control of things.”
“She doesn’t seem to be very in control of you.”
Again James stopped to consider. “No, I suppose not—at the moment.”
“You mean she has been?”
“I suppose, in many ways, yes. Not in a bad way … it’s just she’s provided me with some stability, some roots. She’s kind of looked after me—I feel safe with her. If I’m being honest, I’d have to admit I wouldn't be where I am now professionally without her support.”
“I see,” said Chloë. “Do you feel safe with me?”
“No. That’s what I love about being with you.”
The coke had numbed Chloë’s brain a little: at this point his admissions were fascinating rather than painful. “So,” she said blithely, “do you think you’ll stay together?”
James looked at her. For too long, just as he had all those weeks ago at Louisa’s restaurant. There, along with the difficulty of the question, was that same, unstoppable desire. Only now it had more meaning. And danger.
“Chloë, I don’t know. I truly don’t know. If someone had asked me six months ago, I’d have thought they were mad. Wild horses wouldn’t drag me from her. But now … I’ve met you…”
“Do you still love her?” My God! She’d asked it!
“Yes, I do.”
Even through the coke, that didn’t feel so good. “Are you still in love with her?”
“No, not after ten years or however long it’s been, not in the way you mean.”
Go on, Chloë, ask, ask! “Are you in love with me?”
Again he looked at her. “Boy! You’re not mincing your words tonight, are you?”
“No.” Chloë felt empowered.
“Okay, okay. Yes.”
She sat back, vindicated, thrilled. There. It had been said. There was no going back. “Good.”
“Good? Is that all you can say? Good?” His eyes were wide.
“Yup.”
“So, you pick up my heart, string it out to dry, fuck with my life, do my head in, totally confuse me about my relationship with my wife, let alone my child, and you say it’s good?”
“Don’t be so stupid!” Now she held his gaze. He was making it sound like she’d done it deliberately. “I don’t mean it’s good for all those reasons. Do you think I feel happy about that? Jesus, James, I might be wicked from time to time, but I’m not a complete cow. No, I mean it’s good because I feel the same way.”
“Oh,” he said, laughing at himself. “I see.”
“So, you’re not going to leave her, then?” “Hey!” She could hear Rob’s voice. “It’s only Tuesday!”
“Chloë.” He took her hand. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I haven’t known you long—there are lots of things to consider. There’s Nathan for a start—and things between Maggie and me … it’s not that simple…”
“Right.” Although it wasn’t the answer she wanted, Chloë did understand.
“Is that what you want?”
Heavens! So two could play at this honesty game. “I don’t know,” she said frankly. And she didn’t. “I suppose … I want you to make up your own mind. I don’t wish to force you into anything. And I do understand your situation.”
“You’re very sweet.” He stroked her wrist.
“Really? You think so?”
“Um,” he said. “In some ways, yeah. Anyway,” he signaled for the waiter to bring the check, “that’s enough seriousness for one evening. We’re here—might as well make the most of it—let’s go and dance.”
* * *
It was nearly two when they arrived back at the hotel, but both of them were still buzzing.
“Let’s have another line,” encouraged Chloë.
“And open the champagne.”
“Oooh, we are so evil! We’ve got to go to the conference tomorrow.”
“Damn it, Chloë. You only live once. Conference, schmonference. We’re in New York.”
She leaped onto the bed and started dancing. “We’re in love!”
“Exactly. Now.” He staggered slightly around the room—they’d had quite a bit of wine already. “What are we going to drink this from?”
Chloë jumped off the bed and ran to fetch two glasses from the bathroom. “Here.”
He uncorked the bottle with the deftness she’d noted before and poured them each a glass.
“To us,” he said. Clink.
“To us.”
He racked out two lines. As the sublime I-can-do-anything high hit her again, she took a swig of champagne. Hell, why not?
“Lie back,” she said. He did as he was told. She leaned over him, her mouth still full of champagne, and half parted her lips so the liquid gently seeped onto his. He parted his lips. Then she slowly, slowly released all the champagne into his mouth. He swallowed.
She took another swig, this time swallowing it for herself, then another for him.
“Now,” she said firmly. “I’m going to blindfold you.” She dimmed the bedside light to create a more seductive atmosphere.
“You are?”
“I am.”
“What with?”
“This.” She produced the black-and-scarlet satin scarf she’d brought with her—there was nothing pastel, elegant, or Fendi about it. She pulled him to a sitting position. “Turn around.”
He slid down the white bedspread so his back was to her, and swiftly she tied the scarf.
“I can’t see!”
“That’s the point.”
She undid his shoelaces, pulled off his shoes, then his socks, and threw them recklessly to the other side of the room. “Lie down again,” she ordered.
She took off her dress, but kept on her underwear, her stockings, and swapped her dancing sandals for her foxiest shoes. Finally she threw the feather boa around her neck. Wow, she felt so, so horny! Momentarily she was grateful to Rob for making her plan her underwear so rigorously. And she knew for certain that this—not only the stockings and suspenders, but the blindfolding—was one of James’s fantasies: he’d said so over dinner last night. Apparently it was something he’d only ever shared with Beth, and that was a long time ago, and he’d had to ask: she’d not initiated it of her own accord.
“Ha!” She ran her hand over his crotch. Judging from the jerking through his trousers, her approach was working already.
“You bitch,” he said.
She dug her heels gently into his calves. “Got it in one.”
She undid his shirt, slid it off one arm, then the other—he lifted himself up to help her—and ran her fingers down his chest. Lightly at first, then harder. What fun!
“Chloë…”
“Bet no one else does this for you, do they?”
“No, not exactly—”
“Or…” she unzipped his fly, eased him out of his trousers and boxers, and took another swig of champagne “… this?”
She took his cock in her mouth, and swept the liquid over it with her tongue.
“No!” He tugged at her hair. “Mmm.”
Now Chloë was completely into what she was doing, her lips wet with champagne and saliva. Submerged in the pleasure she was giving, she could do it for ages, forever, if he liked. Then, to intensify the sensation, as she could feel him get more excited still, she started to use her hands …
Finally, inevitably, with a burst like the cocaine high, he came.
“Hmm.” She swallowed. (It went with her wicked, wicked mood.) “Nice.”
She got up. “My turn.” Yet she didn’t blindfold herself. Instead she took his hands and tied his wrists together above his head with the feather boa. So what do you make of this? She challenged the Vermeer. The old woman didn’t seem remotely perturbed.
She removed her knickers and sat astride him, ready to lower herself onto his mouth.<
br />
“James, you have to do this for as long as I want you to, and exactly the way I say. So, you can start softly, softly … But first”—she got off him again—“here. You need some champagne.” She poured a little into his mouth, he swallowed, and she straddled him once more. As he began to kiss her, the liquid made his tongue feel so cool and wet and blissful, she wondered if she’d ever felt so horny before. There was something about the fact that he was so in her power, when she was so in his power—she was so hooked on him—that made it all the more erotic.
Gently Chloë moved herself to and fro, hands propped on The Lacemaker for support.
“Harder … Harder…” His tongue moved, deeper, faster, more assured. “Now, inside … In and out … Mmm.” How she loved this man for doing what she asked. “There, like that, yes, there…”
There was something so, so sexy about watching him unable to watch her, and watching herself gyrating on him that slowly, building in the fantastic way the best orgasms did, right from the tippy tips of her toes, up, up her legs and at the same time down from her breasts, in a wave to the peak that was at her core, with a mind-blowing, never-to-be-forgotten rush, she came.
When she’d finished, she lifted herself off and lay alongside him. “Still think I’m sweet?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to reach for her but unable to. “You taste gorgeous.”
“Guess you have a lot to learn.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll leave you to figure it out,” she said, getting up from the bed. “I’m going to take a shower.” And she went into the bathroom and turned on the water, leaving James to extricate himself from the boa and blindfold.
22
Thanks to Jean’s comforting words, by the time Maggie got back from picking up Nathan, she’d convinced herself things weren’t that bad with Jamie. Monday evening she held off calling him, thinking he might go out to some networking dinner. But by Tuesday, after a dreadful night’s sleep, she was anxious once again.
It’s longer than usual since I’ve heard from him, she thought. Normally when he’s away on business, he calls me a lot—often every day—and it’s been three days.
Wanting reassurance, she called him when she went to bed, yet there was no reply from either his mobile or his room. Rather than face increased suspicion, she persuaded herself it was still early in New York, and decided to try to sleep, but it took her ages to drift off, and her fears emerged in a dream.